


The Idol Banquet

by DDDragoni



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29669232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DDDragoni/pseuds/DDDragoni
Summary: At the end of every season, the ILB hosts a banquet for the top 20 players on the idol leaderboard. Attendance is mandatory. At season 11's banquet, Sexton Wheerer is feeling out of place, but maybe a talk with an old friend can change his mind.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	The Idol Banquet

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't find info on who was actually on the idol board at the end of season 11 so the attendees here are my best guess.

A modified limousine came to a slow stop outside of the Internet League Blaseball head office. After a moment, the large hatch on the side opened and out clambered Sexton Wheerer, pitcher for the Unlimited Tacos, stumbling slightly as his back hooves caught on the seat. The centaur looked up at the cheap nylon banner hung haphazardly over the doorway- " ~~Congrad~~ Congratulations Idols!" and sighed. "Spared no expense, huh?" He mumbled to himself before trotting up the stairs and through the front door.

His teammate Valentine Games was waiting for him just past the threshold, leaning against the wall with a well-practiced casual air. Sexton hadn't seen her leave the limo, but by this point he was more than used to Val's habit of appearing in unexpected places. They pushed off the wall and fell into step alongside Sexton as he started making his way to the Parker MacMillian II Memorial Ballroom, where the ILB was holding its annual banquet to celebrate the top 20 idols of Season 11.

The first time Sexton had been to one of these events, he hadn't expected to come back. The Snackrifice plan was a bold move, one that had elevated the Tacos’ less than stellar players to the level of- and in many cases even above- the league’s greats. He had spent the entire event tongue-tied, unable to bring himself to speak around all-time superstars like Jessica Telephone and York Silk, letting his teammates do the talking until the shell settled around him. This was now his fifth such banquet, and while much of the allure had worn off he still preferred to keep mostly to himself.

This year was no different, as Sexton offered a few polite hellos to the idols already in attendance before taking a small plate of chicken wings from the buffet table to an isolated corner by the punch bowl. He watched silently as the last few attendees arrived in ones and twos, then heard the sound of another door opening and turned his head to see Parker MacMillian III entering through a back door, wearing a ruffled suit and his usual confused expression. The commissioner shuffled awkwardly up to a podium (no microphone, never a microphone, not since season 3) set up near the back of the room.

“uh, hello everyone i'm the blaseball commissioner” Parker reached into his coat and pulled out a small stack of note cards, then started reading off the top one. “Congratulations, Idols! Pause for applause.” Parker looked up at the players in the room, most of which offered a few polite claps. “We cannot express how proud We are of all of you for making it here today.” He went to draw the next card, but lost his grip and it fluttered to the floor. “uhhh” He bent down to retrieve it, but in doing so let go of the rest of the cards, which scattered all over the floor. “oh no”

Sexton tuned Parket out, letting his mind wander to the past. Parker had given a speech every year, and while the exact words differed they all were the same shallow praise and halfhearted compliments. Since they’d started in Season 6, there had always been something... _off_ about the end-of-season idol banquets. The first one had seemed innocuous enough, until Jessica Telephone and Nagomi McDaniel had been Shelled in the middle of the award ceremony. Every year after that, there had been something unusual- from further Shellings to Recievers to the Monitor trying to eat Polkadot Patterson. This year, there was no indication that anything would happen, but that didn’t stop most of the attendees from being slightly on edge.

NaN wasn't here again this year, Sexton realized. Shame, he'd been hoping to catch up with the little glitch. Although San Francisco wasn't far from Los Angeli, at least in the physical sense, the demanding schedule of Blaseball players had left pretty much no time for purely social travel, and with no series against the Lovers this season they hadn't even had a chance to chat after a game. Although, he thought, maybe NaN would rather not be here, not after season 9 when they slipped on someone's spilled drink and stumbled right into-

Sexton was startled out of his reminiscence by the sudden feeling of an arm being draped around his shoulders. Looking to his side, it took him a moment to recognize his former teammate Wyatt Pothos standing there with a grin on her face, the blue uniform and shock of white hair throwing him off for a few seconds. “Hey, earth to Wheerer. Parker left like five minutes ago, you can wake up now.” 

Sexton blinked a few times, then smiled slightly. “Oh. Hey Pothos, it’s been a while. How’s Breckinridge?” He was happy to see her, but with the funk he was in he couldn’t quite work up the enthusiasm the reunion deserved.

“It’s cold! A lot colder than Los Angeli. Almost makes me want to start wearing shirts with sleeves.” She chuckled slightly at her own joke, but stopped when she noticed Sexton wasn’t playing along. "What's the matter, ponyboy? You seem down, this is supposed to be a party! Cheer up!"

She had an easy smile on her face, but Sexton could see there was some genuine concern in her eyes. He sighed. He hadn’t wanted to bring this up, but if there was anyone who he could talk to about what was going on in his head, it was Pothos. "What's the difference between me and everyone else in this room?"

Pothos took a moment to survey the banquet hall. York Silk was playing on some sort of handheld, with Wyatt Glover watching over his shoulder. Aldon Cashmoney was trying to talk Polkadot Patterson into some sort of investment opportunity, but they were ignoring vim in favor of watching Jessica Telephone and Jaylen Hotdogfingers, who had gotten into an arm-wrestling match. Nagomi McDaniels was struggling to load up a buffet plate with her claws, while Thomas Dracaena brought Pitching Machine a cup of what Pothos was _pretty_ sure was cherry punch.

"Well, I'm pretty sure you have the most legs out of anyone here but I get the feeling that's not what you meant."

Sexton chuckled slightly, despite himself. "Well, you're not wrong. But no, what I meant was that everyone here besides me- well me and Glover I guess- is actually good at Blaseball. You've actually _earned_ a place here. I’m just here because pitching every other game means I’m an easy way to make a cheap buck." He took a swig of punch. “At least this year Nagomi's number one so I don't have to sit in that stupid throne."

"You didn't seem bothered by it last season. What changed?" The tablecloth next to Pothos lifted to reveal Val sitting cross-legged between the table legs with a plate of sushi.

"I was definitely bothered. You just didn't notice because of..." His voice trailed off as he remembered the grotesque scene from last year, the charred remnants of several incinerated players propped up at the banquet table like some sort of macabre pantomime. Sexton shook his head to rebury the memory. "Let's just say I had other reasons to be uncomfortable.”

“But I’ve been at every single one of these things since the Snackrifice, and not once have I deserved it. I’m not skilled or well-loved. I’m just... profitable.”

Pothos was quiet for a moment. “Look, buddy. There’s more to this game than how you throw the ball or swing the bat. Spirit matters too. And you’ve got that in spades.”

Sexton shook his head. “No matter how much spirit you say I have, that doesn’t change the fact that I have more losses than any other pitcher has games.”

Pothos jabbed a finger into his chest. “And even so, you’re still out there every other day pitching like your life depended on it. Not just anyone could do that. I don’t know if I even could. And I don’t just mean physically- it’s the frustration. I remember when I first became a pitcher- I lost every game I pitched that season and I just felt useless. And that was only three! But you- you don’t let that weigh you down. You keep pushing forward, and you bring the rest of the team with you.”

“I may not have been in Los Angeli long,” added Val from beneath the table, “but I know how to read people. And the Tacos depend on you. You’re their rock, the foundation upon which they stand, adrift in a sea of chaos. The world is an ocean, and our ships set adrift, waves crashing-”

She continued to ramble on, getting lost in their own metaphor as Pothos quietly shifted the tablecloth to cover him back up.

“I could still see you all on the PODS, you know. It wanted us to watch the games- I don’t know whether it wanted us to study everyone’s strategies or it was just taunting us, but either way we saw what you did in season 10- you got the Tacos their first winning record- ever.” Sexton opened his mouth to protest, but Pothos cut him off. “And don’t you dare say that it was all because of the batters.” She pointed at Val, who was over on the other side of the room discreetly exchanging documents with Fitzgerald Blackburn. “I mean, yeah, that was most of it, but you’re a team for a reason. Without a solid pitcher, the best batters in the league wouldn’t even make playoffs.”

Sexton didn’t seem like he had a response, so Pothos kept going. "Look, there's a reason pitchers are in a rotation. I'm hella tough, but after a game on the mound, I'm sore, I'm sweaty, I'm exhausted- it takes me two or three days until I start feeling normal again. And that's one game! Now remind me- how many did you pitch in a row?"

"Two hundred and two," came Val's voice from beneath the table.

“Two hundred and two! In a row!” Pothos rubbed the shoulder of her pitching arm. “Just thinking about it makes my arms want to fall off. If that doesn’t earn you a place here I don’t know what would.”

“That all makes sense, it’s just...” Sexton didn’t notice his arm was trembling until the punch he was holding spilled onto his wrist. He closed his eyes and murmured something, too quiet for Pothos to hear.

“What was that, big guy?” There was no immediate response. “Come on, you can-”

“It should have been you.” Pothos blinked, momentarily stunned. “You, or Patel, or Leaf, or Fran. Even PM or Quitter. Just... not me.”

“And why not?”  
“Because, I... I don’t know why. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“You live in an infinite fractal cascade of a city and _this_ is what doesn’t make sense?”

Sexton kept talking as if she hadn’t said anything, keeping his voice low even as he started choking up. “You shouldn’t have had to go through everything that happened! You shouldn’t have had to deal with getting kidnapped, and going through those nightmare games, and being forced to hurt everyone on the Shoe Thieves and Crabs, a-and getting thrown all over the planet, while I just sat at home, safe and comfortable with the rest of the team,.” His voice trailed off as his head drooped. “There were five of us in the Snackrifice and I’m the only one that got off easy.”

Pothos was quiet for a moment, looking into Sexton’s eyes as he stared at the floor.. “You’re guilty.”

“What? No, the trial isn’t for a while yet and last I checked I wasn’t involved?”

“No, you’ve got survivor’s guilt. You got lucky and you’re blaming yourself for it.” Sexton didn’t respond. “Look, we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into with the Snackrifice. But we knew we were getting into _something._ And yeah. You got lucky. That's not something to blame yourself for! There's so much out of our control in this crazy splort, you can't suddenly decide it’s wrong when it goes your way for once.”

“But-”

Pothos shot out a hand and held his muzzle shut. “No buts! You don’t get to feel guilty for what a bunch of birds decided to do, end of story. And I’m not gonna lie, that?” She pointed vaguely upwards with her other hand. “Sucked a _whole_ lot. Definitely the worst experience of my life. But you know what would have made it even worse? Knowing I led my teammates into something like that and no one getting out of it.

“So no, I don’t think it should have been me who got freed. I’m happy for you- and so goddamn proud of everything you did with it. And I guarantee the others would say the same.” She gave him a couple solid pats on the back. “Now come on, let's get out of this pity party and get back in there- I think they’re about to give Nagomi your old crown.” Sexton looked over towards the table and true enough, Nagomi was seated in the tacky oversized “No. 1 Idol” throne he’d occupied the last two seasons, staring grumpily straight ahead, with Parker trying to find somewhere among her horns and hair to balance the cheap plastic crown.

Sexton grinned weakly. “Wow, would you look at that. Somehow it’s even stupider from this side.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.” With Pothos leading the way, Sexton headed toward the table where the other idols were gathering, the weight on his shoulders feeling lighter than it had in four seasons.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second fic about a Tacos pitcher getting a pep talk. I don't know why that appeals to me so much. Anyway I refuse to stop until I've made everyone sad about this poor horse. As always, constructive criticism is encouraged!


End file.
